


What's Up, Doc?

by froggy (therealfroggy)



Series: Tea and Cookies [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealfroggy/pseuds/froggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T-Bag has been assigned a new shrink: a woman. She can't decide if she's frightened or fascinated by him, but she is most definitely attracted to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do we have a deal?

“Can I help you, missy?”

The guard at the visitor's entrance of Fox River prison was a true male chauvinist; Marna could tell just from the look of him. The way he sneered at her, the insulting epithet, the way he kept looking to her breasts instead of her eyes.

“Marna Kippler, police psychologist. I am here about a client. I was told you'd be expecting me?”

The guard stared at her, then gave her a grin too much like a leer. “Oh, _you're_ that shrink. I was expectin' a guy. Most ladies ever come here, 're here to gloat over seeing an ex behind bars.”

Marna smiled politely. “I'm sure I'll be just fine. I believe in a firm hand; something I understand your inmates are used to. Would you open the gate, please?”

The guard looked at her, blinked, then called for his colleague to open the small gate in the outer fence. The barbed wire curled around the top looked intimidating enough, but just a glance at the freedom beyond would be enough to drive a desperate man to climb over.

Marna suspected the men in here were more than desperate enough.

Once on the other side of the fence, she was accompanied by a younger, more friendly-looking guard. His brownish hair was nearly shoulder length, and he had a brightness to his voice that told Marna he didn't let things get to him easily.

The young guard escorted her through a maze of hallways until they stood in front of an office door reading _H. Pope, Warden_. The guard smiled.

“Well, here we are, ma'am. The Warden wants to see you before we let you in to the convicts. I'll be waiting here to escort you there afterwards, ma'am, if you still want to go there.”

Marna arched her eyebrows. “ _If_ I still want to go? Thank you, Mr. ...” she read his name tag, “Williams.”

The Warden stood up as Marna entered.

“Ah. Dr. Kippler. How was your journey?”

“Fine, thank you. I always preferred flying to a car,” she smiled.

“Excellent. Well, I've been reading your file, and you seem more than qualified to handle this patient – where his psyche is concerned. What worries me, Dr. Kippler, is the... physical nature of this particular inmate. He can be both abusive and provocative, and no female psychiatrist has ever tried him before. Hell, half of his male ones have dropped his case because of sexual harassment!”

Marna's lip twitched upwards in a small half-smile. “Don't worry, Mr. Pope. I am quite immune to such behaviour. Provided, of course, that I will face no... paperwork, should I be forced to counter any assault on my person?”

Pope looked mildly surprised, but shook his head. “We have no archive in that department, Doctor.

“However, I'm not sure we can allow you to interview the convict without a guard present. He is in for life, as I'm sure you're already aware, and one more murder could hardly make things worse for him. He's quick.”

Marna reached into her bag. “I have taken that into consideration, and yet I must insist on having him on is own. The presence of guards could impede upon his mental progress. I will leave the guards outside the interview room with this...” she held out a small, black plastic box with a tiny red lamp on it, “receiver, and I will at all times wear the transmitter.” She pointed to her breast pocket. “Should my patient conduct any inappropriate behaviour which I cannot handle on my own, I simply press the button and the guards will know.”

The Warden looked all but impressed. “Well, then I'll see to it that you may conduct your interview in privacy. Good luck, Dr. Kippler.”

*

“T-Bag! You've got a visitor! Move your ass!”

Bellick was shouting from the mess hall door. T-Bag raised his head from his nearly finished breakfast, then shrugged and took his time about putting his tray in the rack.

“Comin', boss.”

As he followed Bellick out of the mess hall, T-Bag heard noise from the GenPop cell area. Inmates were shouting, jeering and catcalling; he even thought he heard someone singing a loud and off-key rendition of _Pretty Woman_.

“'S all this about, then, Bellick? A transfer or somethin'?” T-Bag asked, smirking at the prospect of someone new to fill the empty bunk in his cell. Not his fault all they hadn't given him a new fish after his last one was released on parole, was it?

“I reckon it's your visitor, scum bag,” Bellick replied, turning to shout at the cons to be quiet. “She'll be waitin' in the psych room.”

_She? In the psych room?_ There were only a handful of the prisoners in GenPop who ever went in there. The room was set aside for psychologists treating certain cons, cons who were considered interesting or sick enough to deserve a mental analysis now and then.

Needless to say, more than one psychologist had had T-Bag brought to that room over the years. But never a woman.

“Now, T-Bag, don't try anything funny in there. We'll know if you do,” Bellick said, then shoved T-Bag through the open door and slammed it closed behind him.

*

“Good morning, Mr. Bagwell. My name is Marna Kippler, I'm a psychologist.”

Marna turned to the newly arrived convict and reached out a hand. The man simply stood and stared at her for a few moments, clearly surprised, then stepped forward and took her hand. Instead of shaking it, though, he brought it slowly to his lips and kissed it. Marna could swear she felt his tongue on her skin, and it sent shivers down her spine.

“Please, call me Teddy. Or T-Bag, whatever rattles your chains. Well well well, it ain't every day such a lady as yourself ventures into this hell hole, doc. What brings you to Fox River?”

The man was smiling at her, smiling with bone-chilling calculations racing behind his eyes. Marna immediately noticed the intenseness of his gaze as he held hers; the tiny, almost imperceptible circles his thumb was drawing on her skin. The way he measured her up and down, making her feel like she was on fire.

“I am here to ask you a favour, Mr. ... T-Bag,” Marna explained, retracting her hand as he had let go of it. “Won't you sit down?”

They took their places in somewhat comfortable chairs by a small coffee table. The room's design was minimalistic; off-white walls with no decorations, the small coffee table dark and simple wood, and the chairs were padded with the same colour as the walls. There were also three dark farmhouse chairs by the door; clearly intended for an ensemble of guards to keep the inmates in check.

“Well, ain't this cosy,” T-Bag said, eyeing her crossed legs. Marna realized her skirt, ending just above her knees, had slid up a little and thereby gave him a good view of said legs.

“Yes, well, I see no reason why it shouldn't be,” Marna smiled, “This is not an interrogation.

“As I said, I am here to ask you a favour. I want you to be part of my study. If you agree, we are to conduct weekly interviews. I will ask you questions and you will answer truthfully, or not at all if you do not feel ready to answer my question. I will record all our conversations for my archive, eventually publishing my results when I have completed the study. Full anonymity is, of course, guaranteed, should you wish it.

“As a part of this study, you will occasionally receive some tests and forms that I would like for you to fill out. It is not a demand, but it would hardly take up any of your time and it would be of great assistance to me. These weekly interviews will last for about an hour or two, and you are free to quit any time you like.”

Marna paused when she finished her explanation. She knew this was an unfamiliar thing for this man; all his previous psychologists had been appointed by the courts to analyse exactly what kind of monster they were dealing with; to decide which punishment would be better or how isolated it would be necessary to keep him.

“Now, ain't that an interestin' offer. Just one thing that bothers me, Cookie – if you don't mind me sayin' so – what's in it for you? Why would a doll like yourself be sittin' around here with a monster like me,” he smirked, more to himself than to her, “and tryin' to shrink his head? Aren't there better jobs available in Europe for gals like you?”

Marna was impressed. He had caught her accent right away. Not all Americans did that; most thought she just came from another part of the states or had gone to a posh university.

“Oh, there is plenty of work available inside the field of psychology, in Europe as well as the States. However, nothing as fascinating as the field you will represent.”

“And which field might that be?” T-Bag asked, an odd light in his eyes.

“The connection between intellect and... deviant behaviour,” Marna simply replied. “Are people with high IQ more liable to commit homicide? Are educated people less likely to rape children? What goes on inside a human being's mind when he slits the throat of a seven year old girl after having raped her?

“In short, how and why are you different from your average Joe living the American dream? I know a lot of research has been done on this field earlier, but I am quite sure none has been conducted with a subject quite as extreme as yourself. The crime which landed you here, what you did to those children...”

Marna leaned back in her chair. She had T-Bag's full attention now; his eyes were boring into hers, his hands resting on his knees and his whole body seemingly tensed up as if ready to bolt – or attack.

“... makes you one of the most interesting men within crime psychology, in our time,” she finished.

“Why, I haven't heard such praise since I learned how to spell my name,” T-Bag said after a stretching silence. The smile was evident in his voice and it was apparent his mind was working furiously. “I suppose it would be right good of me to say yes; do the society a real favour. But I want somethin' back, Cookie, if you're gonna dig around in my brains.”

Marna looked at him, feeling her heart rate accelerate slightly. Her hand almost strayed to her breast pocket, where the panic button seemed to grow hot against her skin.

“I wanna hear about everythin',” T-Bag finally declared. “All the other freaks you're includin' in this ´study` o' yours. I want you to tell me what you learn; I want you to explain to me each naughty thought you pick from my mind and why it's different from your own.”

The others? No patient or subject of hers had ever demanded anything like that. Why he wanted to hear it, was beyond her, but if he wanted nothing more than to hear how sick he was compared to others – then she would let him have it.

“Then I believe we have a deal... T-Bag?” she asked, using his inmate nickname almost tentatively.

“I think we do, doc. Now, where's the couch and the clip board?”


	2. Who says I'm gay?

GenPop was buzzing slightly that afternoon. A new woman in Fox River. A female shrink, and she was talking to T-Bag. Voluntarily.

None of the convicts doubted that she would be gone about as quickly as she came. Either she would run scared once T-Bag started advancing on her (and he would, there was no question of that), or he would pounce on her when she had her back turned, and rape or kill her. Maybe both if he was in a good mood.

It was obvious she was just there to observe him; T-Bag was convicted for life; there was no chance in hell he would be eligible for parole. The man had raped, tortured and killed children; most official, medical personnel had classified him as “raving lunatic” or “more beast than man” a long time ago. She was probably there to classify him as either.

Inmates quickly started betting on how long she would last. T-Bag's last shrink had left the first appointment in anger after some snide comments about his ass; at least that was the word. The most persistent one so far, a former lieutenant in the army, had held his ground for two and a half months before T-Bag had tired of his “hippie-shit brainwashing” and stabbed a shank through his leg. Half of the man's main artery had been splattered across T-Bag, the other half on the floor and walls.

Most put their money and cigarettes on T-Bag; that she would run scared before he even laid a hand on her. Some thought he'd kill her before she got the chance to run. But it was generally agreed she could not hold his attention long enough to actually complete whatever research she was doing.

*

T-Bag sat on the bleachers; surrounded by the Alliance, surveying the yard. Since the new shrink had first contacted him, they'd had all of three of what she called their ´sessions` (and which T-Bag referred to as his ´weekly time off`), and she still hadn't given up on him. He was impressed.

Truth to be told, he hadn't exactly worked hard to scare her off, either. He didn't want her to give up just yet. Not only did he love keeping the other inmates confused – they'd all been sure he'd do her as soon as she sat down with him – having such a pretty woman talking to him each week fuelled his imagination like mad, too, and gave him something to take his mind off the boringness of prison life.

No; T-Bag was not about to lose those weekly ´sessions` due to sheer lack of self control. So he behaved. He hadn't laid a finger on her (and not for lack of interest – she was the most attractive thing that had crossed his path since he got himself landed in this hell-hole), nor had he said anything naughty beyond a few subtle hints as to what he was thinking of. In fact, the only thing he'd done so far, was answer her questions and look at her.

And her questions were certainly entertaining to answer. She didn't bother with the usual shit about “Did your father mistreat you?” and “Did your mother hug you often as a child?”. She cut straight to the chase; asked him straight out if he enjoyed killing people, if it was the innocence that made him go after children, what he thought about being called a ´monster`. He hadn't thought about that before, actually.

Humming to himself, T-Bag got up and went to stroll around the yard. Tomorrow would bring their next session. Oh, he was looking forwards to it, alright. If only to imagine what his hands could do to that body while she observed him, he revelled in the knowledge that he would have at least one and a half hour alone with her tomorrow. _Looking forward to it, Cookie..._

*

“Bagwell! Shrink to see ya; now!”

Snickers and catcalls followed T-Bag as he sauntered down the block, paraded between two bulls like some suit with a personal escort. Arriving at the interview room, T-Bag stood perfectly still while the bulls searched him quickly, then tossed his head and strolled into the room. The bulls slammed it shut behind him.

“Good morning. How are we feeling today?” Marna asked him, knowing he'd catch the slight on pointless questions. She turned her back to him, taking the lid off of two cups of black Starbucks coffee and adjusting the panic button under her blouse discreetly. She had taken to wearing it on a silver chain around her neck instead; if she was being completely honest with herself, she did not trust herself to get to it quick enough should he try something.

That she didn't trust herself to keep her jacket on at all times, either, was more disturbing to her.

Suddenly she felt hot breath on her neck. “Y' makin' us coffee? Wouldn't have thought ya'd be the domestic type, Cookie,” T-Bag murmured into her ear. He stood so close to her. Marna felt herself shiver slightly, involuntarily; the way he drew out the S in ´domestic` and made it sound so sensual, almost made her forget she was alone in the same room as a murderer. Almost.

“Starbucks hardly qualifies as ´domestic`, T-Bag.” Her voice nearly failed her, but she inwardly congratulated herself on getting into her chair in a controlled and dignified manner.

He chuckled. “Not much of a household type, eh? Well, I'm not about to complain'; even if ya'd butchered a hamster an' boiled it with water it'd taste better than what they're servin' in here.”

Marna's laughter ended abruptly when T-Bag, instead of sitting down in his own chair, circled around hers and stopped directly behind her. She felt heat radiating off his skin as he leant over her; his right arm supporting his weight on her chair's armrest and his left...

Grabbing one of the coffee cups.

“Thanks, Cookie,” he said lightly, moving over to the other chair and taking his seat, coffee in hand.

Marna released a breath she didn't know she had been holding (though careful not to make it obvious – letting a cold blooded murderer see your fear isn't really all that smart), then pushed 'Record'.

“So, T-Bag. We'll be talking about your sexual preferences today. There's anything you don't want to answer, simply stay silent.”

T-Bag leered at her, then settled more comfortably into his chair. Taking a sip of his coffee, he closed his eyes briefly in pleasure and inclined his head towards her. “Go right ahead, Cookie.”

“Some professionals – that is to say, other psychologists – call you a homosexual. Are you?”

“I'd sure like to know who told ya such nasty things about me, Cookie, 'cause tha's a lie. I ain't a faggot,” T-Bag asserted with a slight smirk.

“But you have been involved sexually with other inmates. Not to mention the fact that you raped boys as often as girls.”

“That I did,” T-Bag nodded, “But that don't make me gay. I think of myself as more... open minded, if you catch my drift. I like girls, I like boys, I like a lot of things...”

His gaze fastened onto hers again as he let his tongue trail his upper lip in what Marna had come to recognize as a characteristic trait for when he was clearly thinking of something... inappropriate, and for a moment Marna couldn't help but wonder if that tongue was as agile as it appeared.

“I see. Well, which would you choose? Male or female?” she asked, letting herself meet his gaze and holding it.

“Between a man and a woman? A woman, Cookie, always the woman. Between a boy and a girl? Now, that's a wholly different matter.

“You see, Cookie, a woman is just so much more fun than a man. And probably more attractive, too. But children... They're not really that different, are they? No breasts, no baritone voice, no hips. Sometimes 's even a bit difficult to tell boys from girls, Cookie; some o' them parents dress their kiddies up like they don't know the sex themselves. I don' care whether it's a boy or a girl; they're much the same anyway.”

Marna's mind was trying to process what he had just said, assess the value of his answer to her study; but he still held her gaze firmly and he was crooking the corner of his mouth up into a calculating half-smile that did nothing to ease her – somewhat unsteady – breathing.

“And the other inmates? Do you consider yourself bisexual where ´adults` are concerned?” she challenged, hoping to get some other reaction out of him. If he kept staring at her like that, she might do something foolish, and she did not want that to happen. _Not yet..._

“As I said, I'd pick a woman over a man any day,” T-Bag said, letting his eyes take a little tour of her body before returning them to hers. “But I'm a man like all the rest of the poor suckers in here, and I have needs. Just like your average fellah in the street. There ain't no women in here, Cookie, 'cept for you and the medics, so we'll jus' have to make do with what we've got, won't we?”

Marna exhaled slowly. Reaching for her glass of water instead of her coffee, she tried to calm her rapidly increasing heart rate. Apparently, there was more to T-Bag than she had ever imagined. If this study didn't earn her some credit in the great world of academia, she'd abandon research and start writing smut novels instead. T-Bag sure enough gave her a few ideas as to a male character or ten.

*

They had been talking for nearly two hours now. Marna had changed the tape in her Dictaphone what seemed like a countless number of times, and she knew she was annoying the chauvinist pig answering the name of 'Bellick', to no end. But she simply could not tear herself away from the questioning.

His answers were so base; so animalistic and coarse. Yet to Marna, they signalled, if not a ´normal` mind, then a natural understanding of mankind. The ease and obviousness with which he spoke of his and others' sexuality; he understood the difference between instincts and willpower as well as that between love and lust.

Had he been a random guy in a bar, Marna would have thought him worldly-wise and interesting. She could have ended up following him out into the night. That was, Marna had guessed some time back, the greatest danger he imposed. Deception.

A sudden noise intruded on Marna's reverie, and she turned towards the semi-open door.

“Dr. Kippler, I'm sorry to bother you, but the warden says he's gonna have to cut you a bit short today. T-Bag's got an appointment with Dr. Tancredi,” the guard outside the door said. He didn't look very sorry at all.

“Okay, give me three minutes for one final question, and I'm done for the day,” Marna replied, somewhat annoyed at having to end the session in such an abrupt fashion.

The guard nodded and closed the door again. Marna turned back to T-Bag.

“Last question for today, T-Bag: why Cookie?”

T-Bag looked at her, feigning ignorance. Marna looked at him, unknowingly imitating his half-smile from earlier that morning. “You call me Cookie. Why that particular epithet? I know you tend to give people nicknames for various reasons, but why Cookie?”

“Why do I call you Cookie?” T-Bag finally said, his voice a perfect blend of content amusement and Southern mischief. His eyes roved over her as he spoke. “Tha's 'cause you got hair like caramel... Eyes like chocolate... And you're chunky enough for me to just want to sink my teeth in,” he finished in a hissing whisper, licking his lip suggestively.

As soon as the door closed behind her subject, Marna slumped back in her chair. She could not help but fan herself with her some of her papers. Was it just her, or did the interview room just get ten degrees hotter?


	3. Washing away some o' that frustration

Marna sat on her bed, drinking a glass of wine while listening to last week's interview with T-Bag. She was typing her results on her laptop, assumptions and interpretations intermingling with those of previous studies and drawing an image of a beast among humans.

Her friends called her morbid, twisted, a right nut case. They did so with a laugh in their voice and for the life of them couldn't understand what she found so fascinating about such monsters as T-Bag.

She really didn't care. For Marna did find them fascinating; enthralling even. Since she had started on this study, she had spent every waking moment thinking about her subjects. They ranged from mothers killing their children to children repeatedly killing off their pets, and her last subject – T-Bag – was not just the icing on the cake. He was her trump card, her grand finale; the star that would draw attention and glamour to her study. He was near famous in the field; so many specialists had tried their hand at him and none had succeeded so far.

He had also captured her attention like none of the others had. The others had all had some explanation; something to, if not justify, then at least clarify their actions. A mother had killed her child because she was mentally ill; she believed the child was a demon and had to get rid of him. A five year old hit his pets over the head with a hammer because his daddy was mean to him and he had learned not to feel sorry for the small and weak. A rapist had taken women against their will simply because he had no luck with women, and another because he hated them.

But T-Bag had no such justification. He had been mistreated in his childhood, that would explain the violent streak. But it did not explain the sexual pleasure he found in it. He had been sexually abused by his father – who, it was claimed, was also his uncle – and that could be why he went after children, but not why he seemed to like them better dead than alive.

The intense sadism, the domination issue (T-Bag was not one to compromise unless his life was at stake, he had told her so himself), the way he so willingly told her everything she asked... There was more to T-Bag than insanity, childhood trauma and ´open-minded` sexuality. And Marna was determined to get to the bottom of it all.

If his mother and father were indeed sister and brother, then that opened a whole new window for her study. He could be genetically disposed for mental disorders; his mother was confirmed mentally ill and not much research had been conducted on inbred children in this field.

But she could not pursue that lead, not now. She needed to finish this study, and what remained was T-Bag. She had scheduled their next meeting for the next day, and he had made her promise to tell him about her study. She even caught herself mentally preparing to give him as much relevant information as possible, before she reminded herself that he only wanted the dark details.

Marna took a sip of wine and smiled to herself. Some would claim she was becoming obsessed with him. True, she did spend more time on this subject than the others, and she was involving herself more and more in his psyche, his patterns, his life. But they didn't know the first thing about what she really thought about when she was not writing or recording data.

She thought about T-Bag as a purely physical being, not as a murderer and rapist. She thought about his slim, elegant hands, his dark eyes burning with hell-fire, his tongue that could twist nearly full-turn, his lips being licked as he smirked nastily at her.

She thought about T-Bag's words; his lilting Southern accent and the way he drawled instead of speaking. The way he emphasized the S-sounds and how he ended the nickname he had given her with something akin to a heavy breath. The way his voice dropped and vibrated around some words, making even the simplest sentence seem an invitation to something more.

Marna thought of T-Bag and wanted him badly.

Not for a ´boyfriend`, of course. T-Bag was as suitable for relationships as a wounded wolf with rabies; Marna would not have slept beside him if they had been locked in a cell together for a week. No, Marna's interest in T-Bag, though by no means wholly professional, was simply physical. She knew herself; she could be detached enough to keep away after the study was complete. She had no intention of retaining any sort of contact with him after the weekly sessions were over.

But she had long since admitted to herself that should she ever face the choice (provided, of course, that her panic button was well within reach)... she would not resist.

*

“T-Bag!”

“On my way, boss.”

T-Bag cracked and loosened his neck as he followed Bellick through the GenPop area, heading for the psych room. Session time. Time for him to have Cookie all to himself for a couple of hours. Time for her to share some information.

T-Bag was genuinely looking forward to listening to her. He wanted to catch the flickering gaze of her chocolate eyes while listening to her fine accent and imagining all sorts of naughty things, silently coaxing her to do the same. He knew he could get a reaction out of her; he'd noticed how she became uneasy when he focused his attention on her and talked about something... indecent. He knew he could manipulate her; either she would end up a shivering wreck of fear or she would leave in embarrassment. They all had.

“Hey! Hands off, scumbag!”

The roar was immediately followed by a loud _thump_ , then shouts of anger and excitement, and the clang of metal on metal. T-Bag's hand started for his shank concealed in his pocket, but before he could reach it, two of the bulls surrounding him took off for the source of the noise and the third one informed him, “Stay here if you wanna breathe oxygen.”

Tear gas. A roar of sounds filled T-Bag's ears and a grin spread slowly across his face. Someone must have pissed the bulls off bad.

*

Marna did not even have time to react. A big inmate with a nasty scar down his face stepped into her path, wheezing laughter rumbling from him as he moved closer to her.

“Ain't fair that T-Bag gets all that to himself.” Then his hands were suddenly on her body, and she tried to fend him off, and before she knew what had happened, the air stung her eyes and throat so bad she couldn't breathe and the guards and inmates were all in the middle of what looked like a drunken brawl on the cell area floor.

Christ, it stung. Marna felt everything burn; her skin, her eyes, everything was on fire. And she couldn't breathe. Blinded by the gas, she could only struggle to fill her lungs with air, clawing at nothing in front of her in an effort to find support.

“My my, I think the doc is in need of some assistance,” the familiar drawl purred near her ear. Marna felt dizziness claim her, she stumbled to the floor and forced her eyes open. She couldn't see anything but shapes and shadows.

Panic rose in her stomach. When she felt someone hovering at her side, she grabbed hold of the nearest solid thing she could find. Coarse material slid underneath her fingers as she clung on whoever it was.

“Don't worry, Cookie, Daddy's gonna help ya.”

Marna felt herself being picked up, slung around like a rag doll. She didn't care. She just knew she couldn't breathe, couldn't see. The dizziness was still trying to force her into blackness.

Then she was deposited somewhat roughly onto a cold floor. Sounds seemed to give way for the rush of blood in her ears, but even in her semi-conscious state of panic, she could not avoid noticing the deafening _clank_ that somehow seemed to echo through her mind.

Cold. Cold and wet. Something was making breathing even more difficult, and Marna felt herself slipping off, the lack of oxygen wiping her mind blank...

“There now. Don't that feel better?”

Marna opened her eyes, gasping as air filled her lungs to the brink of bursting. Breath heaving, she swallowed and blinked and tried to focus on the oxygen. She could breathe again. The dizziness was retreating, the blurry shapes in front of her eyes slowly gaining colour and contour.

T-Bag was looking down at her, an unnerving expression of glee on his face. His hair was dripping wet, small droplets of water running down his nose and landing in her hair. She was lying on her back on an uncomfortably hard floor. The sound of water running drew her attention, and she looked up to take in her surroundings.

The showers. They were in the showers, and one of the shower heads was lying on the floor a few feet off; obviously broken. The running water was that emitted from the broken pipe in the wall where the shower head had previously been, fountaining out of the wall in a bizarrely artistic contrast to the filthy room.

Then she noticed how wet they both were. Her black skirt – which had barely covered the upper half of her thighs as it was – was clinging to her skin as if painted on, her white blouse was completely transparent and her stockings appeared torn in several places. Her jacket was nowhere to be seen. T-Bag's standard white t-shirt was as soaked as his hair, and his blue prison trousers were hardly concealing any more.

“I told ya Daddy'd help y'out,” he said, a smirk beginning to spread across his features.

Marna slowly struggled to her feet. “I don't know what happened or how you got me here, but thank you. Where are -”

“Oh, you gonna thank me mighty well, Cookie,” he interrupted, “so save your breath.”

Marna stilled completely. Not moving a muscle, she tried to get her thoughts together. The panic button. This was definitely a good opportunity to test the receiver.

“Lookin' for this?” T-Bag asked, pulling Marna's gaze. His nimble fingers were toying with the small, black gadget, the silver chain dangling tauntingly from his hand. “Tut tut, Cookie. D'ya really think I'd let ya ruin this by callin' on them bulls out there? I think not.”

Marna slowly backed up, until she felt water hit her back. The broken shower head lay too far away; she couldn't reach it.

T-Bag lunged. Grabbing her roughly, he shoved her back through the beam of water and up against the wall. Marna felt the air leave her lungs for a second, then her breath began to quicken even more as T-Bag pinned her hands above her head with one of his and held her waist in place with his other.

“I'm not gonna kill ya, so don't worry 'bout that,” he hissed in her ear, then traced the shell of it with his tongue. “But we can't have you blabbering to the Pope, so I guess I'll just have to do somethin' 'bout that lil' mouth of yours.” His mouth latched onto her neck, nipping and biting harshly. Marna could not contain the moan of pain that wrestled from her throat.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, T-Bag,” she panted as he raised a shank to her throat, the sharpness making her stretch her neck the other way.

“Oh really, Cookie? And why's that?” he pondered, ripping her shirt open with the hand holding the shank.

“Because if I don't like starters, I'm not going to come back for seconds, now am I?”


	4. Rough studies

_”“Because if I don't like starters, I'm not going to come back for seconds, now am I?”_

T-Bag stared at her. Marna did her best to stare back. This was it; the point of no return. He knew now. He knew and she could only brace herself and hope for the best.

“Seconds? Well, aren't you a twisted lil' thing. Ain't ever tried to serve someone seconds before,” he drawled, tracing her skin lightly with the shank. “But I guess there'll be a first for everythin', eh, Cookie?”

He didn't release her arms, he just turned her roughly around so her face was against the wall. Marna closed her eyes and tried to shove far enough back to rub against him. There was a different kind of haze in her mind now; pulsating and heated and hissing T-Bag's name.

“Just so you know, Cookie...” she heard him unzip his trousers, then felt him lift her soaked skirt out of the way, “I'm not one for foreplay. But I'll try to make nice if that means you're comin' back, 'cause I'd sure like some more o' that.” His hot flesh against her black lace underwear gave her a good idea of what, exactly, ´that` was.

One hand was still holding her arms, the other one was tearing her panties down. When Marna felt his hand on her breast, a different kind of moan escaped her throat.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, arching into his nimble fingers.

“You turnin' all religious on me, Cookie?” T-Bag grunted as he thrust inside. Marna gasped and threw her head back, flinching at the sudden intrusion but moaning in pleasure all the same.

Cold water cascaded over them, feeling like ice against Marna's heated skin. He was pushing against her, filling her roughly again and again as fingers danced over her body. His breath was on her neck, on her shoulder, in her ear; filling her mind completely.

“You like that, Cookie? Tell me,” T-Bag commanded, his voice and words and accent making Marna shudder and push back to meet his thrusts.

“Oh God yes, so good... Oh, T-Bag, God, I...” Marna rambled incoherently. T-Bag smiled against her neck, then started licking his way from her shoulder to her ear.

His hand moved from her breast, skimming down her stomach, drawing closer to – _Oh yes right there_... Moaning loudly, Marna bit her lip to keep from crying out as his hand found just that spot; started to work it roughly; stroking and touching and... and...

She cried out in pleasure, her whole body tensing up and shuddering wildly against T-Bag. He grunted as she turned her head to bite sharply at his neck, convulsing around him, moaning and panting and grinding against his hand.

“Oh yeah, Cookie, just like that,” he whispered in her ear as she rolled her head back onto his shoulder, struggling to stay upright in the wake of her climax. He stopped, lowered them both to the floor, then turned her around to lie on her back on the floor and repositioned himself over her.

“I ain't finished with ya just yet,” he growled, resuming his merciless thrusts with vigour. Having recovered somewhat, Marna smiled and curled her legs up around his waist, challenging him to do his worst.

His movements became quicker and rougher, then erratic. His face contorted in pleasure; his brows knit together and his eyes slipped closed, then he groaned loudly and thrust deep. He came with a strangled moan, collapsing on top of her.

Marna lay still, breath heaving and warmth spreading through her. T-Bag's racing pulse hammered just below her own on her neck. His weight was crushing her to the floor, but she had neither the strength nor the inclination to move.

What had just happened?

She had just had sex with a convicted paedophile rapist murderer. She had just had her best orgasm in years. She was lying underneath him nearly fully dressed.

And God, did she want him to ravish her again.

*

T-Bag let out a breath, pulling himself out and getting somewhat unsteadily to his feet. He did his trousers back up without even bothering to wash off. He didn't want to. He wanted to lie on his bunk that night, recalling the feel of her heat around him, knowing the evidence of it was still on his skin and his clothes: he'd just fucked Cookie.

“Well, I must say, you're awfully good at sayin' thanks, Cookie.”

Sitting up, she looked at him with hooded eyes. Her mouth was swollen and open, cheeks flushed. She bit her lip.

“I'll be back tomorrow to conduct our interview, then,” she said. T-Bag grinned at her. Then he gave her one last look, licked his lips, and left.


	5. Rescuing T-Bag?

_As if in a daze, Marna got to her feet, straightened her clothing and tried to smooth her hair back. She suspected she was doing a lousy job of it, but she did it just the same. She closed her blouse and bent to pick up the panic button – T-Bag had left it, for some reason – and cleared her throat. Then she walked out of the showers, calling for a guard. She would need her bag and jacket back._

*

“What do you mean I can't see him? This study is nearing a crucial point; I must insist on -”

“I'm sorry, but your study doesn't weigh as heavily as prison protocol. The inmates are all subject to a lockdown, dr. Kippler. It's supposed to be a punishment for them; no food, showers or visitors for 48 hours. Bagwell already brags about his ´weekly time off` to the other inmates; excusing him from lockdown will render whatever other punishment we give him, useless.”

“But why is Bagwell to be punished? Make him an example; let the other convicts see that good behaviour works,” Marna insisted. She refused to have her study postponed or hindered just because some Neanderthal inmate had to lose his self control and grope her.

“An example?” Pope exclaimed, incredulous. “Dr. Kippler, we have no idea what each single inmate was doing yesterday. There is no way to single out good behaviour in such situations; Bagwell could as well have been raping a younger inmate as having a nap in his cell!”

“I know exactly where he was during yesterday's riot, Mr. Pope. He was busy saving my life.”

Pope raised his eyebrows at her, looking like shock incarnated. “Saving...?”

“My life, yes,” Marna confirmed. She despised repeating herself. “When the fighting broke out and the tear gas was released, I suffered an allergic reaction to the gas. Your men were busy trying to control the inmates; there was no way they could have noticed that I was in trouble. Bagwell found me, got me to the showers and managed to rinse the gas residues off my clothes and skin. I had severe problems breathing and had he not done what he did, I would have passed out in the middle of the fighting, and in the worst case suffocated.

“Mr. Pope, I was completely helpless as I could neither see nor breathe. He not only helped me, he also behaved perfectly amiably. He neither hurt me nor molested me as is his habit with helpless victims. Wouldn't you agree that this is good behaviour? Or at least contradictory enough to his character to deserve a thorough analysis?”

*

“You sure you don't want me to come inside, doctor?” Bellick grunted, swinging his baton in a very cave man-like way.

“Yes, officer Bellick, thank you, but I'm sure it will be fine. If you and one of your men would just wait right outside, I'll talk to Mr. Bagwell and finish my business. Then you may accompany us to the interview room.”

Marna nearly sighed in exasperation. Did all prison personnel require this much explanation?

“Open up 16,” Bellick shouted, stopping one cell away as agreed.

The cell door slid open, the sound echoing off the walls in the cell block. It was the only sound. Not a single one of the inmates had made a noise as Marna passed them on her way to T-Bag's cell; not the usual catcalls, not a jeering comment, not even questions about what she was doing here. They all just looked at her, watching her like some strange animal. It was unnerving, but Marna refused to let her nervousness show.

“Good morning, T-Bag,” she said, stepping up to the now open gate, but not crossing into the cell.

“Well, if it ain't the shrink. Mornin', doc. What ever could you be doin' here at my cell, and durin' lockdown, too? You come to rescue me from the cruel death of boredom?” He slowly got off his bunk, smirking at her. His words sounded unfriendly but the way his gaze was heating up as he stepped slightly closer to her made it clear he was not feeling particularly ill-tempered that morning.

“I'm here to ask you a favour, T-Bag. I think it would make an interesting contribution to my study if I'd be allowed to see your personal living space. Would you let me have a look around?”

“Another favour? You are gettin' demandin', ain't ya,” he drawled, leaning against the bars. “Well, I suppose I'd better let you come in. But you should say ´thank you`, Cookie. Say it real nice.” His tongue darted out to lick his lips, reminding Marna of how it had felt on her skin the day before and sending a shiver down her spine.

“I believe you'll be properly accredited again some day, T-Bag,” she murmured softly as she stepped past him and into his cell. She could have sworn she heard him hiss in excitement.

The cell was completely anonymous. There was nothing; no books, no pictures or posters, not a single thing beside the furniture and some clothes thrown haphazardly onto said furniture.

“You keep your cards close, don't you?” Marna asked casually, turning to get a thorough look of the cell. Not much to look at, really, but then again – she hadn't exactly expected him to paper up his walls with porn posters and pop singers. He was not a teenage boy.

“Have to, in a place like Fox River. But I'll show them to ya, if y'ask nicely...” He sidled up behind her, his back shielding them from the view of the inmates in the opposite cells. Marna's breath hitched when he stroked a finger ever so lightly down her side, letting it come to rest on her hip.

“Please?” she whispered, discreetly sliding a hand between them and ghosting a touch to what she could reach of his thigh. He placed a hand between her shoulder blades and steered her towards the very back of his cell.

“You're mighty good at beggin', Cookie,” he hissed in her ear. Marna knew the non-existent illumination of the cells would almost completely conceal them from view unless someone came up right outside the cell. And she had nagged Bellick until he had assured her that would not happen.

_Our conversation will be confidential, officer Bellick, just like all our interviews. This is not a shakedown._

Her thoughts snapped back to T-Bag as the warmth of him standing so unnervingly close to her, disappeared. He stepped over to his bunk, then sat relaxedly down on it. “'S all right here, Cookie,” he said as if explaining something, patting the mattress next to his leg. “Everythin' the prison don't furnish, I keep it right here in bed with me. Safe and secret.”

“Safe and secret?” Marna repeated, tracing a finger along the corner post of the bunks. “Does that phrase appeal to you, T-Bag?”

“Nah, not really,” he replied casually, whipping the shank out from nowhere in particular and playing it around his fingers. “Just sometimes a man's gotta do, yeah, ya know, Cookie. It ain't nothin' but necessity and privacy. A man don' question me, I leave him to his own.”

“What about the things you did to your victims? Did you want people to know? Have you got any cuttings of newspaper stories concerning your... merits?”

“Hell no, Cookie. What I did to them kids 's between me and them. Jus' like yesterday 's between you an' me. I ain't lookin' for attention. I'm just after a good time.”

T-Bag grinned at her, and Marna turned around to face the opposite walls. A good time. Raping and killing children was, in this man's mind, placed in the same category as consensual and satisfying sex. What did that make him?

What did that make her?

*

“Well, I believe 's your turn to talk today, Cookie,” T-Bag said the moment they entered the interview room. He sauntered over to his usual chair and sat down in what could only be called an arrogant sprawl. His eyes were on Marna as she moved to the other chair, as she sat down, as she put her bag down next to her feet.

“It is. Well, what do you wish to hear? Should I tell you about your case, or about the other subjects?” Marna wanted to ask him why, but refrained. There would be time later.

“I've changed my mind about that,” T-Bag drawled, “I don' think I'd like to hear about the others. 'D make me feel like I wasn't special, y'know, Cookie,” he replied, licking his lips.

“Oh, but you are, T-Bag. You are the main part of my study; all the other subjects have been chosen to lead up to you. To support my study of you and everything related.

“You're a very self-contradictory man; at times I've been tempted to look for symptoms of split personalities. On one hand there's the man who abuses and hurts for pleasure, the pleasure climaxing in taking another's life. There is no concern for anything but momentary satisfaction; a beast driven by instincts. T-Bag,” she added, naming the side of him that belonged in prison.

T-Bag slowly, gracefully, rose from his chair, stepping over to her before kneeling on the floor before her. “Keep talkin', Cookie; just keep on talkin',” he said as if explaining.

“Then... then there is a man so practical it borders on indifference; planning and considering things. Who may have done just as well on the outside. Theodore -” Her sentence turned into a gasp as his long fingers started making their way up her legs, stroking the nylon of her stockings on the way.

“Keep talkin',” he repeated, “Keep talkin' an' I keep goin'.”

Marna couldn't stop herself; she continued talking. “The sides of you that belong to a normal man, a man who... Oh...” He had passed the hem of her skirt, the lacy edge of her stockings, he was brushing over her thighs and...

“... who keeps his instincts under control long enough to please his partner first in order to make her come... back,” Marna moaned as his hands were caressing her through the black silk of her panties. One of his hands grabbed her hip, pulled her to the edge of the chair. This pushed her skirt up and T-Bag took full advantage; manoeuvring her into a position which barely left her sitting in the chair, he pulled her panties down.

“These are hardly necessary, are they, Cookie?” T-Bag drawled, licking his lips and pulling the black silk all the way down to her ankles.

“Don't... What... People can...” Marna panted as T-Bag started licking and biting his way up her thighs. She wanted to tell him to stop; the guards could come in, she didn't even know if there were cameras in this room... But oh God, that tongue; that incredibly agile tongue was laving a hot trail over her skin, and her breath hitched and she couldn't even resist as he spread her legs wide and started nipping sensitive skin.

Flicking, sucking, thrusting, licking, oh God, and his hands like iron clasps on her skin while he nipped and laved. Marna writhed on the edge of the chair; her legs quivered and her hands were clutching at the armrests.

“T-Bag!” Marna moaned breathlessly, mouth open and panting, “Oh God, T-Bag, don't stop!”

He growled harshly as he shoved his tongue in deep, his grip on her tightening. His mouth claimed her; possessed her. She was his in every way; for the time being, she belonged completely to him. Shamelessly, dangerously, deliciously sinful; she belonged to him in every way.

Marna felt warmth spreading through her entire body; her cheeks were furnaces and her eyes had long since slipped shut in pleasure; pleasure intense enough to wipe all concerns about guards and cameras from her mind. There was nothing but T-Bag's tongue and wet licks and sharp nips and barely suppressed moans, nothing but intense pleasure.

“Oh... Oh, T-Bag, don't... Oh God! Oh, sweet...” Marna gasped as ecstasy began numbing her mind. She tensed, arched, shuddered; biting her lip to keep from screaming, she let go off all control and tipped over the edge, T-Bag still working her with his tongue and teeth alike.

As she came down from her peak, T-Bag licked her thighs off and sat back on his heels. “Too bad I didn't get to hear ya scream, Cookie. You scream like a dyin' songbird.” He licked his lips, using that cruelly talented tongue to lick her off his face. Marna's mouth was dry from heaving breath; the sight of him savouring her flavour worsened that condition.

“You really do deserve the name, Cookie,” he said, noticing her gaze. The corner of his mouth crooked into that smug half-smile, his eyes glinting strangely. “I wonder if you taste that good all over. Or is the center always the best?”

Raising to his feet, T-Bag snatched Marna's panties from the floor. He stuffed them into his right pocket, then, as he was about to sit back down in his own chair, froze as he stared transfixed at her face.

Marna, beginning to regain her senses after her climax, half-raised a hand to her face before T-Bag moved back to her. He grabbed her chin, holding her face still, then dipped his head towards hers.

For half a second Marna thought he was going to kiss her. Then his tongue darted back out, and she closed her eyes. He started licking, slowly, sensually, at her lips – and it stung. Letting her eyes snap back open, Marna could only stare into his eyes as she felt him lick the blood off her lips; the blood she had drawn when biting her lip during her passion.

“I ain't a vampire, Cookie, so don't be lookin' so scared,” T-Bag chuckled. “Jus' helpin' you clean this mess up.”

Marna let herself relax into his grip on her face. She opened her lips in invitation, but she already knew that T-Bag was not the kissing type.

“There,” he said, moving back as suddenly as he had moved in. Sitting down in his chair again, he grinned mischievously at her.

“Anythin' else you goin' to share with me today, doc?”


	6. Just a little experiment

“Good morning, Mr. Pope. Could I have a word?”

The warden looked up at her, cleared his throat and gestured for her to sit down. “Of course, doctor. How can I help you?”

“Well, the thing is, my study is taking interesting turns. The subject is showing qualities not documented in him earlier, and I should like to conduct a small experiment to test if one of these qualities is what I think it is.

“In essence, Mr. Pope, I would like for Bagwell to accompany me to the interview room instead of meeting me there. Unchained. The number of guards present is insignificant, as long as they keep a distance of at least ten feet.”

Pope stared at Marna as though she was a raving lunatic or had grown an extra head.

“Forgive me if I sound rude, doctor, but in a situation like that, what's going to stop the riot from a week ago to repeat itself?”

“If my assumptions are correct, Bagwell is,” Marna said. “If not, then I shall be held fully responsible for whatever happens to my person. Of course, you may send in as many guards you want, but I would prefer it if you, shall we say, left... opportunities.”

“Opportunities? Doctor Kippler, are you saying you _want_ inmates to attack you?” Pope exclaimed, incredulous.

“Not at all, Mr. Pope. I wish only to test my theory. It has been ascertained that T-Bag is a figure of authority among the other inmates; I want to see him interacting with them. This could be highly important to my study of his character.”

Pope sighed. “This may be more trouble than it's worth, but if you're this intent on playing with Death, then I suppose I'm not making things worse by helping you.”

Marna laughed. “I assure you; I have no death wish – only ambitions.”

*

“This would be much easier if ya'd simply hold my pocket, Cookie.”

Marna and T-Bag was slowly crossing the cell block area of GenPop, four guards walking in a wide square around them. The other inmates were all but circling them like a pack of wolves; crossing their path a few feet ahead or behind but never crossing an invisible line circling the pair of them.

Marna smiled and felt like laughing in triumph; her theory proved correct. T-Bag provided her with ample protection just from his mere presence, but that was not all: he had asked her to hold his pocket. Right outside the mess hall where he had joined her and her escort; as soon as he had been informed that he was to escort her to the psych room.

_“Escort the lady? Well, I suggest you hold this, then, Cookie. Go on; hold Daddy's pocket.” He pulled out his pocket and offered it to her. The guard in charge, however, quickly told him to “stuff it back in” and do as he was told._

That such a simple object, a scrap of white cotton, meant so much; set Marna's mind reeling. She was already making mental notes on what to include and what to research further on for her study. She was thinking about it as T-Bag walked with her across the grey prison floor, hungry predators stalking around them but never crossing that magical border.

The pocket. From his files, she knew that T-Bag was a prison tradesman: for total submission and obedience, he offered protection and certain privileges to any young inmate unfortunate enough to interest him. Making them his “bitch”, as was the prison term for such relationships. They held on to his pocket in public, letting everyone in Fox River know who owned them. And all the other inmates left them alone.

He had offered Marna that pocket.

T-Bag was highly dominant and possessive of his pocket-holders. They were his as much as any of his personal belongings, and there were some rather nasty stories recorded of other inmates having tried to make use of the pocket-holders. T-Bag was not only rumoured to conceal a razor blade under his tongue at all times, he also knew how to inflict severe damage with it while keeping the victim alive to the very end.

The thought made Marna shudder. That tongue had been inside her; his mouth all over her as he pleasured her roughly. She couldn't help but wonder, were those really his teeth she had felt? Had she been a movement away from molesting herself on his mouth with her wild bucking?

“After you, doc,” T-Bag drawled, and Marna suddenly found herself outside the interview room. She mentally shook herself, straightened her shoulders and entered the room. As usual, the guards remained outside.

Pressing the button on her Dictaphone, Marna cleared her throat and looked up to meet T-Bag's gaze. “The topic of today is your pocket, mainly. We'll also be discussing some... issues where your sense of self is concerned.

“Your last partner...” Marna purposefully paused, giving him a meaningful look, “You offered her your pocket. That is usually something reserved for your prison bitches. I interpret that as an attempt to equate her with the people you have controlled over the years you have spent in prison. Would you care to elaborate on this point?”

“Well, to be frank with ya, Cookie, I haven't been thinkin' all that much 'bout it. Could I blame it on habit, you think?”It was obvious T-Bag was none too interested in the interview; he was looking at her with heat gathering in his eyes and that damnable tongue of his was wetting his lips almost continually. Marna knew her body was responding to him, but she refused to give in until she had her answers.

“I think you do it to keep stability,” Marna pressed, hoping to evoke some other kind of response in him. “I think the idea of a ´normal` relationship frightens you; you need to keep a distinction between you and your partner. Always master and bitch. Why, T-Bag? Does the prospect of normality frighten you?”

He looked at her, his face an unreadable mask occasionally broken by the odd flicker of some emotion she could not identify.

“Have you ever thought about just being involved with someone without involving violence? I know that you are capable of feeling physical pleasure without involving rape or extreme violence. Why do you treat them like that?” She knew she was letting herself be carried away with questions, but he was looking at her now, his attention focused to a pinpoint.

“You sure ask difficult questions, Cookie. Whatcha up to today?”

“I want to complete this study, T-Bag. I want recognition as the first person to get inside your head without dying or giving up. Do you want me to fail? Or will you help me in succeeding? The choice is yours.”

They ended up talking for three hours straight that morning.

*

T-Bag was lying on his bunk, staring up at the top one. Today was Sunday, and Cookie wouldn't be back until Tuesday. He hummed to himself as he considered the possibilities of that morning.

She'd sent him a little something yesterday. In the mail. All the years T-Bag had been in prison, no-one had ever done that. He smirked to himself. She sure was a difference from the drone of prison life.

Cookies. She had sent him a box of large chocolate chip and caramel cookies. They were either home made or from a very good bakery; T-Bag hadn't eaten anything like it since he left old Alabama for the last time. They had tasted of freedom, memories and expectations.

T-Bag had been eating cookies on the day before he killed the last one in 'Bama. He hadn't thought about it then but as he ate them now, in the privacy of his cell with the sounds of prison surrounding him, he remembered all the details. The way the boy's eyes had been happy and trusting at first, then filled with fear as he realized T-Bag wasn't a nice man. The feel of the limp little body as he thrust into it; the colour of the boy's face as T-Bag took away his breath.

And as T-Bag ate his cookies, he'd remembered the days before he'd had to run from the cops. He'd remembered the children. He'd remembered the day of the riot, in the showers, and he'd laughed out loud. She did, too. She sent him cookies.

Cookie remembered and T-Bag would make sure she never, ever forgot; not even if she wanted to. She belonged to him; he might not get out of this hell-hole any time soon but he'd make sure she always lived as though he was right there. In fear or anticipation, he'd make sure she never, ever forgot why cookies made her eyes glaze over and her heart beat just a little faster.


	7. Reciprocation

“Officer, will there be any disturbances today?”

“Disturbances, doc?” CO Williams cocked his head, looking for all the world like a confused puppy. Marna almost felt sorry for him. He shouldn't be here; shouldn't work with people like these inmates.

“Does Mr. Bagwell have any appointments of any sort? Is there any reason for you to cut our interview short today?”

“No, doc. He's got nothing but yard time; that's not until late this afternoon. Why?”

Marna smiled. “I'll be asking him some sensitive questions today, that's all. Could you make absolutely sure we are not disturbed until we're done?”

The young CO nodded, and Marna closed the door to the interview room. Turning to T-Bag, she left her bag by the door and stepped over to her chair.

“Sensitive questions, eh, Cookie?” T-Bag said, leering. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, twisting nearly full-turn. The sight of that tongue was something she would never forget. She might even miss it when her study was complete.

“Did you get my little present?” she asked, curious to his reaction to them. She'd carefully chosen the recipe when baking the cookies; making sure there was both chocolate and caramel. Not strictly necessary to her study, but she knew she was close to completion, and really – what was a box of cookies after what she'd let him do to her?

“I did,” he purred, his voice deepening. “They tasted nearly as good as you.”

Marna placed the Dictaphone on the table, switching it on. “I want you to do the talking today, T-Bag. I want you to tell me about your family. Start with your closest relatives – your mother and father – and just tell me what a little bit about each of them. Then move on to any other family member you can remember.”

“I thought we already did this, Cookie. I distinctly remember tellin' you somethin' 'bout my dear old daddy,” T-Bag said casually, picking up her pencil from the table and playing it around his hand.

“You did. But I'd like to hear about your relationship to the rest of your family. Of course, you're free to skip your father and just tell me about the ones you want to,” she said, holding his gaze.

“Alrighty then. My momma, she was a retard. Ain't much to say 'bout her; she didn't like me and I didn't like her.”

Marna rose from her chair. “Keep talking,” she encouraged when he stopped, one eyebrow raised. “Don't mind me.”

A wicked smile spread over T-Bag's face. He let his knees fall a bit further apart, leaned back in his chair, then licked his lips slowly. “Yeah, she was just a retard. Kept shoutin' things that didn't make no sense, just sat and stared at the wall...”

Marna sank to her knees in front of T-Bag, then placed one hand on each of his knees. Her brain wasn't registering a single word he said, but she knew her Dictaphone would get it all. Slowly sliding her hands up his thighs, she leant forwards and went to work on the fly of his trousers. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noted he never stopped talking, but she wasn't sure what, exactly, he was saying.

Finally getting his trousers undone, she reached into his boxers – grey cotton, probably standard prison issue – and closed her hand around him. Smiling naughtily up at him, she lifted him out and leaned even closer.

“Now, my cousin Jimmy... You any good at deep throatin', Cookie? ...he and I were pretty close.”

Over her, T-Bag's voice never stopped, not even when Marna took him completely into her mouth, swallowing down every last inch of him. She vaguely registered he was talking about this cousin Jimmy, but slowly started bobbing her head up and down as if her Dictaphone wasn't recording every sound.

Marna steadied herself with hands against his hips as she started sucking, gently at first then with increased pressure. She felt him hitting the back of her throat, gliding over her tongue as she moved her head. Underneath her, T-Bag started bucking and his hands fisted in her hair. But he kept talking.

Marna smiled around him, then raked her teeth carefully along him as she pulled back, replacing her mouth with her hand. Working the base of his cock with her hand, she let her tongue play around the tip, sucking lightly and clamping her lips tight around him.

“Damn, you _are_ good at it!” the murderer moaned from above her as she took him completely in once more, moaning deep in her throat. The vibrations made him jolt forwards, but Marna was prepared and just let him thrust down her throat.

“Hell yeah, Cookie, give it to Daddy!” His growls urged her on; she had him. With one hand, she turned his pocket inside out, fisting the white material roughly. The other hand stroke up and down his thigh, her nails clawing against his skin through the coarse material.

T-Bag thrust wildly against her, his head tipped back and his mouth open in a wordless moan as he came, spilling himself in her mouth. Marna swallowed it all, lapping at his twitching cock to collect every last drop of come. Licking one last time along him, she carefully tucked him back into his boxers and returned to her seat.

“So, T-Bag. Anything else you want to tell me about your cousin Jimmy?”

*

Back in his cell, T-Bag leaned against the bars, gazing after the guards as they retreated. He grinned to himself. If only they knew what he and Cookie were doing in the psych room...

She was one twisted shrink, alright. A hell of a suck, but probably as twisted as they come without being locked up. The bad boy syndrome was one thing – he really should find himself some more victims of that disease – but the professional way she handled everything; it was like she didn't even care that she was playing with Death's handyman (and that phrase was no invention of his; some reporters could be so creative!).

It turned him on. Turned him on like there was no tomorrow. Usually he liked them more innocent, but there was no denying it – a willing woman was just so much more satisfying than a scared prison bitch.

'Sides, he thought with a smirk, prison bitches didn't send him cookies.


	8. Don't make it complicated

“I got a question for ya,” T-Bag offered.

Marna had just switched on her Dictaphone, placed it on the table, and provided each of them with a cup of black coffee. She glanced up at him, eyebrows raised. “Fire away.”

He smirked. “Do you feel bad about what you're doin' with me? 'Cause we both know, you are a bad girl...” His tongue flicked at his lips, and Marna couldn't help but smirk back.

“I know what you mean. I am a professional, and should act as such. Do you find it inappropriate, what I do?” she asked back.

“I ain't the one to be talkin' 'bout decency and what's appropriate, Cookie; never was and never will be. I just find it a bit odd, is all, the way you go all clinical and professional right after suckin' my cock,” he drawled, clearly not bothered by it at all.

“Well. Though it may seem a strange way of doing it, I am perfectly capable of separating business and personal life. I have an important study to finish, and I will conduct the research necessary for its closure. The fact that you and I have had sexual encounters, does nothing to change that.”

Marna smiled. She knew it was an unacceptable way of thinking, but she didn't care. She was too busy studying other people to analyse herself; if she ever got any complaints, she would deal with it. Until then...

“So you're sayin', you ain't fuckin' with me to get me to cooperate?” T-Bag pondered, looking at her with a thoughtful half-smile. Which, of course, was a sharp contrast to the fire in his eyes.

“Of course not. I would never sell myself for a client. Or for academic achievements. I ´fuck with you` because I consider you a highly attractive man, and I don't have a lover at the moment. Do I need other reasons?” she said lightly, picking up her pencil. She brought it to her lips, playing with it, holding his gaze.

T-Bag snorted. “I am a lot of things, Cookie, but I ain't an attractive man. You sure are a bit twisted. Can't imagine why; only thing I can think of is that, what do they call it, Helsinki syndrome?”

“Stockholm syndrome. And I assure you, T-Bag, that is a wholly different matter. Don't make it so complicated; I find you a very sexy man and I will honestly admit to wanting you in a very physical way. It's as simple as that.”

T-Bag was looking at her differently now, the fire in his eyes still there but the thoughtfulness completely gone. His tongue was locked between his front teeth, his hand was moving down towards his pocket and that bulge in his pants certainly was no empty pocket.

Marna bit her bottom lip. She knew the risk was too great; she knew they could be discovered. And she should finish her study. But she only had one issue left to discuss with him; she would finish on time. And the way he was sucking on his lip like that...

“You like simplicity, right, T-Bag?” she asked, her voice one she hardly recognized as it dropped to a sultry, soft tone.

“I sure do,” he replied, slowly getting out of his chair, “makes life a whole lot easier.”

With that, he crossed the distance between them, pulled her out of her chair, and somehow manoeuvred them both to the floor. Grasping her breasts roughly, he pulled her closer to him and started nipping and sucking on her throat. Marna tipped her head back to give him easier access, her hands clutching at his shoulders as his started ripping at her blouse.

“Tell me what you want, Cookie,” T-Bag hissed in her ear, his right hand snaking up underneath her skirt to tug her panties to one side. Marna moaned and arched into his hand between her legs, spreading them as much as was possible while still sitting on her knees on the floor.

“I want it hard,” she finally panted, “and fast. We don't have much time. I want it rough.”

“I like you already,” he said, chuckling as he turned her around, positioning her on all fours before him.

Marna hear him unzip, felt him push her skirt up, and it felt like a wonderful deja vu. She steadied herself and bit her lip to keep from moaning too loudly as he pushed into her, filling her. He was nothing above average in size but she didn't give a damn; the way he was holding her hips in a bruising grip and thrusting harshly against her made all thoughts fly from her head.

“Damn, you're even better than I remember, Cookie,” he whispered in her ear, bending over so he was completely on top of her. The coarseness of layers of clothing between them was a sharp contrast to the intense heat of him inside her. Marna pushed back against his thrusts, arching her back to increase the contact.

He was hitting just that spot and for each thrust, pleasure was spearing through her body. Marna moaned softly when she felt his hand on her breast again. His hands were everywhere, his mouth panting hotly against her ear, and he was thrusting into her over and over, making her legs go weak and her blood race in her veins.

“You almost there, baby? Come on, come for Daddy... Want to feel you come around me,” T-Bag panted in her ear, and Marna moaned, her body pushed mercilessly towards the edge.

“God, yes, T-Bag; more,” she ground out. “Talk to me!”

“Talkin' doin' it for ya, Cookie? You like to hear my voice in your ear while I fuck you?”

The accent, the heat, the naughty words; Marna gave in and came hard. Not uttering a sound except for a strangled moan, she convulsed around him, pushed back hard to meet his thrusts and felt her mind topple into exquisite pleasure.

“Good girl, Cookie,” he grunted, pounding into her erratically. Vaguely, Marna registered he came moments after her, his grip on her hips tightening painfully and his mouth closing over the pulse point on her neck.

*

In the afterglow of her climax, Marna's mind felt deliciously groggy. She readjusted her clothing on autopilot, then moved to sit down in her chair again. It wasn't until she found T-Bag sitting across from her in his chair, grinning nastily at her, that she remembered something.

Subconsciously covering her throat with one hand, she stared at her subject in suspicious wonder.

“Is that razor blade in your mouth right now?”

“Now, how do you know 'bout my blade, Cookie?”

“Apparently, it's common knowledge that you know how to speak with a razor blade hidden in your mouth. A survival technique of prostitutes, or so I am led to believe.” She gave him a questioning look.

“Ain't just useful for whores, this weapon,” T-Bag opened his mouth, presenting the silvery blade on his tongue. For a second or two, the steel glinted at Marna, tauntingly reminding her of where his mouth had been on her body, then it disappeared again, hidden in T-Bag's mouth.

“I'm just sayin', it's more convenient than a shank and easier to hide than anythin' else. I cut myself a few times, learnin' to handle it. But don't you worry,” he added, seeing the odd look on her face, “I know what I'm doin'. Haven't had any ´accidents` since I was seventeen.”

“What about the fact that it's a prostitute trick?” Marna asked casually, trying to mask her relief about his control.

“Our number system was invented by coloured Muslim folk, that don't stop white, Christian folk from usin' it.”

“Good point. In some areas of thought you are indeed open minded, T-Bag; notwithstanding your racism, you could almost pass for a man of great understanding and acceptance,” Marna noted.

“Well, then I guess I'm just –”

Three brisk knocks on the door. Marna whipped around irritably. “Yes?”

Captain Bellick opened the door as if he owned it.

“Well, I'm sorry to have to cut you short, but Bagwell's got an appointment,” he said, grinning at her as if to say, _Take that, bitch!_

Marna felt annoyance fill her instantly. “And why was I not informed?”

“'Cause the appointment just came up. It's real important. So if you wouldn't mind...?”

“T-Bag, thank you for your time,” Marna said, ignoring Bellick. “I'm approaching closure with my study, so next week will be our last or second-to-last session. Have a nice week, and I'll see you next Tuesday.”

She didn't see T-Bag's distant gaze on her back as she left the psych room.


	9. If you're ever going (or, Closure)

“I want to thank you, T-Bag. You've contributed enormously to my study. When I have it published, I'll be sure to send you a copy.”

They were alone in the interview room again. Marna glanced at the floor and rememberer how, two weeks ago, they had shagged like dogs in heat right there. The memory brought a smile to her lips.

“It's finished already, Cookie?”

“Yes. All that remains is a bit of grammar reading.”

“Then why're you here today? One last question?” He smirked at her. Marna couldn't figure why.

“Common courtesy. You've done me a great favour, I thank you. And I thought it would be a good idea to say goodbye in a proper way. I'm not likely to see you again,” she said, knowing she would miss these sessions. They were interesting.

“Aw, now, Cookie,” he said, holding her gaze, “don't be so pessimistic. If I'm ever in the area 'round where you live, I might just stop by.”

Marna laughed. “You are aware of your _life-time_ sentence? When are you going to get to New York?”

But he caught the glimpse of mischief in her eyes.

“Is that an invitation, Cookie?”

“Maybe,” she said coyly, winking at him.

“You know, I don't like the idea of you quittin' me, all that much,” T-Bag said suddenly.

Marna blinked. “Well, I don't have a choice. My study is complete. I won't be allowed to see you as anything but a visitor from now on, should I come back to Fox River.”

“And if I needed a psychologist to deal with my personal... issues?” T-Bag suggested, leering. Marna could not deny the surge of heat that raced through her as his tongue flicked over his lips.

“If Dr. Tancredi ever deems it necessary, one will be appointed to you. If that happens, be sure to let me know, and we'll see about it. I could pull a few strings if you expressed a wish for a particular psychologist. But most likely, you'd just be transferred to the asylum or appointed a shrink from there.”

Marna wasn't sure why that made her feel a slight tinge of regret.

“Let you know? Now, how am I supposed to do that?” he said, the leer never leaving his face.

Marna reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “This is the contact information of my office. Phone, fax, email. I trust you not to abuse it,” she said, knowing the only acquaintance he had on the outside was his cousin Jimmy. She doubted she had anything to fear, but still – any visitation address or home number was out of the question.

“Not even if I feel awfully lonely durin' yard time?” he asked, licking his lips again. He extracted his hand, but instead of taking the card, closed his fingers around her wrist. The pressure was gentle but the skin contact was electric.

“If you can't bear it,” she replied, locking eyes with his. Then, she decided to leave him with one last memory.

Rising swiftly from her chair, Marna turned her hand in his grip and pulled at his hand. Leading him over to the chairs by the door, she swung them around aggressively, pushed him down on one of them and then went to work on his belt.

“Now what's this, Cookie?” he said, letting her open his trousers and remove him from confining boxers.

“Goodbye present,” she said, smiling, “for me.” Then she pulled her skirt up a few inches, moving to sit down astride him.

“No panties? You are a bad girl,” T-Bag hissed as she sank slowly onto him. Seated in his lap, she was facing him as she gripped his shoulders and started moving.

“And you're a very bad man; in that department, none of us has the right to complain,” she whispered, arching into his touch as he roughly caressed her breast. He smirked up at her and placed one arm around her waist, holding her in place while he thrust up into her hard.

“That's what turns you on, ain't it, Cookie; the bad ones... Oh yeah, good girl... the ones you know are really bad for ya?” he grunted, brow furrowing in pleasure as she clenched around him and tightened her grip on his shoulders.

“'Course, that'd make me just the guy to get your heat goin',” T-Bag said, his thrusts mercilessly hard as he pulled her even closer to hiss in her ear, “In prison... murderer... racist... and too old for ya, too.”

“The age hardly matters to me – oh God, right there – but true enough, I tend to go for the... bad boys,” she panted, starting to trail one hand down his body. “Does it turn _you_ on? That you make me behave like this?”

She was panting, moaning, keeping her voice down so the guards outside wouldn't hear but writhing unashamedly in his lap as he fucked her.

“Well, I'd be a real idiot if it didn't,” he whispered in her ear. “A pretty lil' thing like yourself, wantin' me to fuck you? Only reason I haven't killed you, Cookie, 's 'cause you're just beggin' for this. I ain't one to turn that down.”

Marna froze. Kill her. He hadn't killed her – yet.

“Are you going to?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite the intense pleasure shooting through her with his every thrust.

“Don't see why,” he said, grinning, “with that invitation you gave me.”

Relief flooded Marna, mixing with pleasure and apprehension. She gasped and shuddered as his hands flew over her body, the sensations adding to what her emotions had done to her nerve endings, and with a whimpering moan, she quivered under his touch and fell apart in ultimate ecstasy.

“You sure ain't hard to please,” T-Bag hissed in her ear as she came down from her high, leaning into his grip and just letting him ram into her. He went harder, faster; his harsh thrusts bordered on painful but Marna wanted to feel every second of it.

Daringly, she leaned in and placed her lips at his throat. Kissing and sucking, she made her way up to his jaw. Nipping along his jawline, she pressed her body closer to his and bypassed his lips in favour of the other side of his throat.

“You tryin' to kiss me, Cookie?” T-Bag said, never slowing his pace as he rammed into her body.

“No,” Marna said, moving to suck at his earlobe, “you're not the kissing type and some things are too personal for both you and me. I'm trying to ´make nice`.”

He snorted a laugh which soon turned into a groan as she snaked one hand underneath his shirt and played her fingers over his chest, toying with his nipple and biting gently at his ear at the same time.

“Hell yeah, baby,” T-Bag moaned, tipping his head back as his eyes closed and his mouth fell open. “Come on, show Daddy you're sorry 'bout leavin'...”

With that, he ground up into her with a soft growl and came. He thrust once, twice, then tensed as his climax washed over him. Panting, he slumped back in the chair, easing his hold on her enough for her to sit up.

“I think you got a lil' confused 'bout who that leavin' present was for,” T-Bag said, his breath still laboured.

Marna smiled as she rose from his lap, straightening her skirt as she did so. “Shall we call it even, then?”

“For the time bein',” he replied. “You just remember your invitation.”

Marna looked at him. He seemed in every way sincere. He was, indeed, planning on getting out of there some day.

Collecting her bag and looking over herself one last time, making sure everything was in order, Marna said, “I have to go. If you're ever in New York...”

“If you're ever in Fox River,” he replied.

Marna flashed him a smile and left the interview room. Closure was always a satisfaction.

Today, doubly so.


End file.
